


Four Things John Winchester Learned to Appreciate about Lego (and one he would have if he’d only known).

by ariadnes_string



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:03:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the smallest things have unexpected uses--and play surprising roles in the course of events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Things John Winchester Learned to Appreciate about Lego (and one he would have if he’d only known).

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday fic for calamitycrow, who gave me a prompt for Lego!fic with John and his boys months ago, and probably thought I'd forgotten all about it. Sorry it’s a little late, babe—and hope you enjoy it.

For all the times he’d resented the extra space the plastic bin took up in the trunk, and all the nights he’d hopped across the room clutching his foot after stepping on one of those fucking things in the dark-- for all the mornings he’d spent tearing apart motel rooms looking for the last, _most important_ piece they couldn’t live without, and for all the times he’d said “What did I just tell you, boys? Weapons are not toys—and toys _are not weapons_ ,” John Winchester was prepared to admit that there were actually some good things about Lego.

 **One: It could make a good bribe** :

John had made his peace with the fact that he wasn’t going to be proud of everything he did as a father. There were the big things he was ashamed of—like the fact that he was raising his boys in a series of grungy rooms in one-horse towns. And there were small things—like the fact that he occasionally resorted to bribery.

It was usually Sam. Most times, Dean would respond to either reason or a threatening look. But every once in a while, Sam would dig his heels in about leaving one town or another, cross his arms mulishly, plunk his narrow little butt down on a saggy bed, and refuse to leave. Didn’t want to miss the school play, or the soccer final, or the school awards ceremony, or some such Sam-like concern.

And there John would be, stuck between Sam’s pint-sized stubbornness, Dean beating an increasingly impatient rhythm on the door, and the desk-clerk telling them they had to be out by noon or pay for another night. And he’d cave.

Y’know,” he’d say, “there’s a pretty big Woolworths in the next town—whatd’ya say I take you—and your brother,” he added, at Dean’s yelp of protest, “over there once we get moved in?”

Sam would unfurl the tiniest bit, squint carefully at his father. “We really need one of those baseboards—the ones you can build other stuff on top of,” he’d venture cautiously.

“Yeah,” John would sigh, “I can see how we do.”

And Sam would take himself off to the car with great dignity, for all the world like a tiny mafia boss who’d negotiated a settlement between rival gangs.

 **Two: It could mark a trail.**

 _Goddamn it_ , John thought, trying not to make too much noise as he pushed his way through the bracken of the tinder-dry forest, _of all the stupid, amateur mistakes—letting the boys get snagged by a fucking witch_. John hated witches—especially the kind that thought it was cool to live off the grid in the freakin’ woods.

He wasn’t even entirely sure that she was a witch, and not some nutjob Wiccan with an attitude problem. Didn’t matter, anyway, because now she had Sam and Dean, had taken them to whatever crazy hideout she had in this scrubby Michigan forest. _Probably some kind of trailer with walls made of gingerbread-- gumdrop decorations, and candy cane light poles,_ John thought a little wildly. And what four-year-old wouldn’t follow a nice lady with candy? But Dean? Dean was eight—he should know better by now.

Maybe she was a witch—maybe she’d cast some kind of invisibility spell on them. And, okay, he was starting to get a little worried, because he couldn’t for the life of him pick out a trail in the bright carpet of fallen autumn leaves.

Just then, his eye caught an object of another color on the forest floor. Dull gray and obviously manmade. He stooped to pick it up, and rubbed the nubby little plastic square between his fingers. And laughed, because maybe, just maybe—

He scanned the leaf-strewn ground around him, and there, sure enough, was another one, red this time, nestled near a patch of yellowish mushrooms. And then a white rectangle, a few feet to the east.

John grinned. _Resourceful_ , that’s what his boys were, _fucking resourceful_.

He moved through the woods more confidently now, guided by the Lego pieces that appeared every yard or so. Now that he had found the route the witch had taken the boys, he could see the evidence of their passage—broken twigs, scuffed earth. _Not long now_ , he thought, fury speeding his progress. He wasn’t going to kill the witch—not unless he had to—but he was going to scare her within an inch of her life for daring to lay a hand on his sons.

Gradually, John became aware of another sound in the forest, the rustling of an animal, maybe a person, maybe two. It was coming towards him. He tensed, and curled his hand around the gun in the waistband of his jeans: maybe the witch was coming out to meet him.

But it wasn’t the witch who appeared out of the shadow of a vast oak tree. It was Dean and Sammy, holding hands, hair tousled and covered in leaves and dirt. Sam was still in his pajamas, and Dean had a cut above one eye, but they looked as fierce as any legendary forest outlaws.

John lunged towards them and hugged them hard, an arm around each. They mashed their faces into his chest, childish fingers scrabbling to pull him closer. There’d be snot all over his shirt next time he looked.

When they’d all caught their breath a bit, and John was sure they were alright, he squatted down to look them in the eye.

“That was good thinking, boys, leaving a trail.”

“Yeah,” said Dean. “We both had a bunch of pieces in our pockets—“

“So we dropped them, without her seeing, just like in the story,” Sam chimed in.

“But how’d you get away from her, boys?” John asked. “Don’t tell me you pushed her into the oven?”

“Nah,” Dean laughed. “She only had a hot plate. She didn’t like it when her hair caught fire, though.”

 **Three: It could make good poker chips.**

“Dad,” Dean whispered, plucking at his sleeve, “you promised.”

John turned his head away from the TV. He could see about three inches of wrist poking out of the long-sleeved t-shirt Dean had worn to bed. That was another trip to Wal-Mart, right there, he thought, he was never going to get on top of these things.

“Dad,” Dean insisted, “You said once Sammy was asleep, you _said_ \--

John had said. And it was the kind of thing that once you said it, no eight-year-old was ever going to forget it.

“Yeah,” he sighed, flicking off the TV, “You sure Sammy’s asleep?”

They both paused a moment to look at the blanket lump on the bed in the darker part of the motel room. It certainly seemed to be slumbering peacefully.

“Yeah, he’s drooling and everything.” Dean jiggled a little bit from toe to toe, like he couldn’t wait for this grown-up adventure to begin.

“Good—‘cause you know your brother would fleece the both of us.” Dean and John shared a laughed over their mutual knowledge of four-year-old Sam’s capacity for stony faces and drawn-out battles of will. “Go get the cards out of my bag, okay?”

“Sure. And money, right? We need money.”

“I dunno,” John felt a momentary pang. Eight was a little young for gambling—even for pennies. “How about those—let’s use those.”

“Lego?” Dean was incredulous—like he knew they never used Lego in Vegas.

“Sure.” John tried to sound confident. “It’s just practice. The black pieces can be ones, okay, and the red pieces fives. Besides, you've got the rest of your life to play for real money.”

 **Four: It could pass the time.**

There was a sharp little sound from the floor near John’s feet. It was the third time he’d heard it now, so there was no use ignoring it any longer. John sighed, and raised his eyes from the papers and newspaper clippings spread out in front of him on the room’s only table.

“You hurting, kid?” he asked. The sound had been more frustrated than pained, but it still seemed the likeliest explanation.

From his position cross-legged on the floor, Sam shook his head. “No, sir.” He didn’t look great, though, John thought, pale and hollow-eyed, his right forearm in a cast supported by a sling—the result not of a monster attack, but of jumping off the playground swing at the wrong moment. He’d hit his head on the way down, too, and it was the minor concussion, not the broken limb, that had convinced John to keep him home from school today, to take the day off himself to keep an eye on him.

“I’ll stay, Dad,” Dean had said, trying to look as sincere and responsible as possible, and not like he was looking forward to a day of TV. “I know how you hate to miss work—except for hunting, that is.” And maybe John was doing Dean a disservice—he had been genuinely upset to see his brother in so much pain—but he’d missed too much school as it was, so John packed him off with a note for Sam’s teacher.

Sam, being Sam, had only been able to stomach daytime TV for a couple of hours. Then he’d slept for a bit, and woken to kick around the room restlessly, until John had thought to pull the Lego bin out of the trunk. At seven-almost-eight, Sam was getting a little old for it, at least John was hoping he might be, hoping he might reclaim the space the bin took up for extra ammunition or something useful. But he was grateful for the stuff today, because it had kept Sam occupied for a good hour already. At least until he started making that noise.

“What is it then?” He asked.

“Nothing.” Sam ran a sullen hand through the pieces, making them clack against each other. “Just hard to put things together with one hand, y'know?”

“I bet,” John said. “Why don’t you watch TV? Or try to sleep some more.” He looked down at his notes again, focused on the possible werewolf sightings near Lubbock.

“Okay.” But Sam didn’t. John could hear him fussing with the pieces, the snap and click of them.

The fourth time Sam made that sad little _mmft_ of frustration, John couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed himself away from the table, hunkered down on the floor near his younger son.

“What’re you trying to make?” Sam had all the black pieces from the bin spread in front of him, some of them already configured into a half-made cube.

“The car.” Sam hung his head, like he was a little embarrassed. “But it’s coming out all wrong—it should be more—more rectangular.” The frustration was back.

John had to smile: a Lego Impala—you didn’t see that every day. “You—ah—you want me to help?” He asked cautiously, because Sammy, these days, was as likely to get offended at any suggestion that he might not be able to do something himself.

But this time Sam nodded, albeit without raising his eyes.

John gave up on his notes, sat down next to him, and tried to re-jigger the Lego chassis to something more like the Chevy’s actual shape. “Okay,” he said, “you be the supervising engineer—tell me what goes where.” So Sam handed him appropriate elements, advice, and criticism. But he was right—it was frustrating trying to get the proportions of the long, low car right with the blocky little pieces.

John got so absorbed in the effort he completely forgot about the potential Texan werewolf, didn’t even notice the stream of instructions slowing to a halt. His concentration was only broken when an enormous yawn sounded next to him. He looked up to find Sam rubbing his eyes with his good hand, looking closer to four than seven-almost-eight.

“Hey,” he said, “why don’t you go lie down?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Wanna see how it turns out.” He knuckled his eyes again.

“Oh. Well, at least come over here then.” John stretched out his arm, and Sam, as he’d done so rarely lately, ducked under it, jammed his body up against his father’s support. John buried his nose in Sam’s soft hair for a moment. It had been a while since he’d shampooed it, and the sharp, antiseptic smell of the hospital where the bone had been set lingered on top of the musty scent of unwashed child.

But John paused for a moment, nonetheless, savoring the feel of his boy in his arms.

 **Five: It could save the world.**

 _fin_


End file.
